"I'm your man, you tell me if I don't have a say."
"You scoundrel! Shameless!"
"With you, who needs a face."
"..."
Their sharp exchange made even the servants around them sense the smell of gunpowder.
The servants dared not delay and quickly stepped forward to push open the exquisitely carved door, watching them enter before carefully closing the door.
"Xiao Yu, you're back."
A pleasing and melodious female voice suddenly rang out, and a woman in her forties approached with graceful steps.
Her wine-red curly hair draped over her shoulders, clothed in designer brands, and even the perfume she used was one of the most expensive from a major international brand.
Her hand, painted with purple nail polish, gently brushed her hair, and although her lightly made-up face was charming, it was indescribably vulgar.
When her eyes fell on Shen Cheng in Shi Yu's arms, her smile stiffened slightly, with a meaning that was shallow and easy to understand—it was hostility.
